


man still must err, while he doth strive

by Potoo



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Friendship, Gen, and references to goethe, because faustian!combeferre is the best kind of combeferre, judeo-christian themes, sorry...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potoo/pseuds/Potoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre meets two strange men. </p>
<p><i>Main characters:</i><br/>a wager<br/>a million questions<br/>a lot of wine</p>
<p>one devil and one angel. (maybe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	man still must err, while he doth strive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiminutiveFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiminutiveFox/gifts).



Heaps of books lay strewn on the desk. His last candle was burnt down; he had failed to remember buying new ones, and now his choice was either darkness or setting the whole building aflame and continuing his studies in the light of his apartment burning. Not being much of an arsonist, he chose the former and put the candle out. The moon shone into the room, but didn’t offer enough light to enable him to make out a single word from the manuscript he’d been reading. 

Combeferre sighed and let his gaze wander to the window, a thoughtful expression wearing deep furrows into his brow. His head was paining him, a dull and continuous ache. It was a full moon, the stars aiding in the city’s illumination, and he decided to stand and walk.  
He did not succeed. His legs were tired of his sitting at his desk all day and all night, and he stumbled before gracelessly slumping down on the hard wooden floor. His gaze stayed fixed on the bright night sky. 

The candle had gone out and kept him from studying. There would always be borders, a tiny and relentless voice in his mind reminded him. His knowledge would never be infinite. There was a candle going out when he wished to continue studying; there were inept teachers, professors who could hardly understand a logical argumentation; there were facts no human being could ever hope to know. What came after death? What came _before_ death? What were humans made of, deep down inside – and what lay deep inside the Earth’s core, what was inside Jupiter’s core? When would man learn to fly, when would society accept death? How was a beach formed, how a mountain, how a continent? There were borders, so many borders – humanity’s knowledge was a grain of salt, while its good-willed ignorance was an ocean. The voice was pressuring him, so unusual in its pessimism, but it kept speaking to him, night after night after night, asked what the sense was, why he tried so hard when truly, he would never be fulfilled. And the voice grew louder every night. It had been growing louder since he had first heard it many years ago. 

Since being confronted with the vast amount of knowledge native to Paris, the Parisian libraries and the university, it had only become louder. Each time Combeferre came to know something new, ten questions accompanied that knowledge. He wanted to know, no, he _needed_ to know. It was hopeless; when he died, in fifty years if he was lucky, he would not have learnt even a tiny bit of the guidelines of the world’s workings. It was not demotivational; in fact, it urged him to study longer and harder, but it was exasperating in its infinite amount, if not frustrating. He needed only to reach out, close his eyes, and each time his hands would grasp something new, a new part to complete that fragmentary image hovering around him. 

It was this evening that the voice grew loud enough to make him pause, and _think_. It hit him with iron, painful, until he could feel the blood rushing through his veins, until his whole body convulsed at the realization of that one depressing fact: it was the first time he realized he would not only die, that he had accepted long ago; but would die an unlearned man.

He would die, and would die unfulfilled.

And that was not only his fate; it was that of everyone he had ever met and everyone he would ever meet as well.

Almost everyone, that was. It was not long after that night of realization that he met a charming young man in a popular winehouse close to the university’s grounds. His hair was dark and sleek, his figure lithe, his face enticing. His tongue was a miracle, and thus, his speech was irrestistible. He spoke of the temptation of both liberty and women, spoke of humanity’s fate and of the best wine in the city, and behind his brown eyes, a red fire was smouldering. He made Combeferre uncomfortable, but attracted him at the same time; and as opposed to other doubtlessly intelligent people, Combeferre knew that mankind would never know anything, and the existence of a God could neither be proven nor disproven – just like the existence of a Devil. He was, maybe not inclined to, but nevertheless willing to _believe_ anything, and this young man made it easy to believe in both Heaven and Hell. 

The young man, who could not be anything but a Devil, was a smooth creature, so friendly, so amusing, witty, generous, open, _nice_ ; and he seemed to know exactly what Combeferre wanted, seemed to have sensed it the moment their eyes had met. The hellfire inside of him produced sparks when their fingers touched. He accompanied him home, and they drank wine and talked until the sun came up the next morning. 

“It is true,” Combeferre said while the first morning rays fell through his window, “it pains me to know that knowing the full extent of my own ignorance is the furthest I will ever come in understanding the world.”  
The Devil smiled sympathetically. “Oh, my friend, you know it does not have to be so.”  
Combeferre regarded him warily. “You do not presume to imply-”  
“I do not imply a _thing_!” The Devil seemed horrified at the thought. “Nay. All I am saying is that no matter how much you study, the important questions will never yield an answer to you. It is impossible for a mere human being to know the _why_ of the world. Anyone not a human, though...”  
“Don’t jest.” Combeferre replied and took another sip of his wine. “Anyone not a human? What do you speak of – does a _duck_ possess the deepest and darkest secrets of the universe?” His dry answer was more of an open challenge. He knew what the man wanted of him.  
“Haven’t you studied what I am decidedly _not_ implying? Or am I mistaken?” the Devil countered.  
“Put your offer in clear terms, magnificent Mephistopheles.” Combeferre requested bluntely. “And then, let me ponder on it.”

The Devil smiled, and bared four rows of teeth – which was nonsense, Combeferre observed after blinking. There were two rows of teeth, no more and no less. The wine must be going to his head.  
“I offer you the answers, my good doctor. The answers you so dearly yearn for. I am afraid the hunt for them might consume you if I would not offer them to you, and wouldn’t I be horribly cruel if I let you chase after those spectres senselessly?”  
“My well-being is not your price. State it.” Combeferre sipped and never once took his eyes off the Devil. 

The Devil’s smile waned and was replaced by a warm chuckle. “You misjudge me; your well-being is at the very core of my heart.”

“Your price.” There was a sort of smile on Combeferre’s face again. As exhausted as he knew he should feel, he could only call himself exhilarated at the opportunity to be talking to a man who was either the maddest he had ever met, or a true demon – both of those possibilities were intensely interesting. 

“You want not to believe your happiness is the one thing I wish for the most?”

“Surprisingly, I am in doubt of your magnanimity. State your price, adversary.”

“Ah. Yes, I am not eager to give without receiving anything in return. I see that you are one who is ready to trade. And isn’t that much more satisfying: to know that not only will _you_ be pleased with the transaction, but so will I? If you want gifts without returning anything, like a common beggar, I propose to ask precious Christ for guidance.” The Devil’s face remained impassive, save for the amused smile. “Christ gives gifts. I am specialized in trade. And you, monsieur, you bear innocence and curiosity in your heart, courage and intelligence, you have so much to trade...”

“I feel insulted,” Combeferre interjected, “that you would try to flatter me like this. I have asked you for the price you want to be paid four times, I will ask you a fifth, but not a sixth time. What would you have of me, in exchange for those answers?”

The Devil leaned back. His gaze, formerly fixed on Combeferre, wandered to the window. He began to chuckle. There were two rows of teeth, definitely, and his throat was red from the wine and not from blood.  
“You truly believe I am the morning star? My friend, has the wine gotten to your head? See. The sun has come up. I have not turned to dust.”

“I do not claim you are him,” Combeferre replied, “but I will not rule out the possibility that you are not him.”

The Devil stood up and walked over to the window, to gain a better view of the city. The rosy sun tinted everything pink. Paris rarely was as beautiful as in the early morning.  
“What could one like me demand from one like you,” the Devil murmured. His voice sounded as if it were crawling with a myriad of insects, their tiny chitin bodies scraping against each other, their countless legs traipsing over syllables, their wings fluttering in his breath. “This is my offer, good man. I will teach you all that I know. I will teach you what the universe is made of. I will teach you the truth of death. I will teach you of souls and decay and the beginnings of the world, as I will teach you of this planet’s death. I will teach you what a fly is made of and what your fingers are made of, I will teach you what lies behind cholera and the plague, I will show you the parts of a brain that make a man go quite mad. You will _learn_ , Combeferre. And that is the price you have to pay. You will _learn_. You will stay with me, and you will endure the knowledge. You think to know of all these things is a _gift_? You are mistaken, as you are about so many things. It is a gift, yes, but it is a punishment as well.”

Combeferre had listened silently. Now, he stood and took one step towards the Devil, who turned around to meet his gaze. His eyes were burning and Combeferre thought he could actually feel the heat emanating from those large black pupils.  
“You do not want my soul?” The question sounded horribly dumb to Combeferre’s own ears. “Nor my innocence, my courage, my intelligence? You want to see me driven to my knees beneath knowledge’s weight, that is the payment you are asking for?”

The Devil smiled a soft smile. He seemed very sad, Combeferre thought.  
“What would I want with your innocence? All I could do with it would be to destroy it, and that wouldn’t please me. Not overly much, that is. I do not collect souls. They come to me one way or the other.”

“Very well,” Combeferre hummed. “As I said, I will ponder on it. Let us meet here again, tomorrow, this same time, when dawn has just broken, and I will give you my answer.”

The Devil nodded. He did not bow his head, but he leaned forward to peck each of Combeferre’s cheeks. His lips were scalding hot. 

“I will await your answer.” he told him as he took his hat and left. 

Combeferre slept for six hours. Then, he went out and bought himself lunch, followed by a stroll through the city. It partly felt as if he had just imagined the Devil’s appearance in his home, now, with the sun illuminating the city and everything seeming so very clear. A sense of mystery was difficult to achieve when children were laughing and bees were humming happily nearby. 

Combeferre had met a Devil and it should not surprise him this would be the day he met an angel, too. The angel had long, blond hair, flowing freely, cascading down his back; his eyes were a bright blue, his cheeks a rosy blush while he talked loudly to a group of students next to a lake. Combeferre stopped and stared. He could not be completely human. There was an ethereal light surrounding the man, the angel, and Combeferre had studied the Scriptures well enough to know angels were not famed for their meekness. A Seraph stood before him, as removed from a putto as the chariot was from the common coaches driving through Parisian streets. He was gorgeous and divine and his voice flowed like music; melodies that could proudly lead an army into a war. 

After the few students had dispersed, he spoke to Combeferre. Combeferre forgot his words but would always remember the kindness glistening in his eyes. He smiled, and the Seraph smiled, and they walked through the garden. The sun itself couldn’t be shining brighter than this young man, Combeferre thought, and instantly scolded himself for being blinded by a man’s charisma like this. 

The Seraph spoke of liberty for everyone, he spoke of mankind’s destiny, he spoke of the Deliverance that would arrive sooner rather than later. The upper classes were an extravagant pulp of decay, no less repulsive than Versailles had been under Louis XIV; the Rights of Man were not only violated but slaughtered every day anew; it world could not take much more injustice, and after a cleansing, it would be reborn in greater glory. 

While the Devil’s voice had been accompanied by insects, this angel’s words had the soft rustling of feathers beneath it. 

“You have met the adversary,” the angel said when they had reached the end of the park.  
“I have, indeed,” Combeferre replied, not even bothering to be curious as to how the angel would know. He had to sense it, somehow. “He has offered me knowledge.” The angel’s presence invited unwavering trust; it was difficult not to spill every detail of his life to him, no matter how embarrassing. “But would not ask for my soul; he wanted only for me to break beneath his gift’s weight.”

There was a shadow of something Combeferre couldn’t quite grasp on the angel’s face. “Indeed. That is a favored strategy of his. Did you agree?” The angel was far more blunt than the Devil had been with his silver tongue and smooth evasion of discussing anything with substance. 

Combeferre shook his head. Yet he could not lie to the angel. It seemed impossible. “I have thought about it. Why should I not agree? There is a reason he’s known as seductive, is there not?”

He smiled. 

The angel did not smile. 

“You must not agree. It is highly important you shan’t agree.”

Combeferre shook his head. “Give me one good reason, and I won’t.” 

The angel cocked one eyebrow. Seconds passed without another word. 

“You disagree with me?” he asked at last, the experience obviously a new one. 

Combeferre would like to deny that claim, yet again he found himself unable to lie to that radiant face. „Dear friend, you are not one to disagree with easily. I would like an explanation, nothing more. Why shouldn’t I accept this man’s offer? I have yearned for absolute knowledge for many years now. One good reason, my friend, and I will ask him to leave me alone forever.“ 

The angel did not seem pleased by his words. Combeferre shuddered at the expression he wore. That was the expression that had preceded Gomorrah’s end, he was certain. He hadn’t planned to be smitten on such a bright, sunny day. Thankfully, no matter how angered he seemed, the angel wasn’t in the mood to smite today. “He is the enemy of all good people. He seduces virgins and pours drinks down drunkards’ throats, he frightens children...”

“Indeed, he did seem very... _frightening_.” To a naïve child, perhaps; not to Combeferre. It was all a matter of perspective. The Devil would’ve frightened a child, but not him, so he was frightening, in a sense. “But why should I deny his offer?”

The angel took his hand. “Don’t do this. For me.” 

For a short moment, Combeferre was tempted to agree. But even thought the angel was beautiful and ethereal and otherworldly, there were things even more divine than the divine. And that was a good discussion. If the angel was not willed to provide him with one, he would not move. 

“I will ask you one last time. Why shouldn’t I accept?” 

This fifth time seemed to yield results. The angel let go of his hand – regrettably: his hand was warm and soft – and looked at him, serious and ancient and unblinking. “We have spoken about many matters today. You are a good man, Combeferre. You are free and affectionate and erudite, humble yet witty. I would not like to see you broken.”

Combeferre stayed silent. A couple passed them, her arm in his; a child tumbled behind them. A group of young men passed them. A priest passed them. 

“Will you come with me?” Combeferre asked at last. “I will meet him again when the sun rises tomorrow. Will you be there with me?” He had not answered him, he was aware of that, had not said he would denounce the evil. But the angel seemed pleased nevertheless, and nodded. 

They spent the whole day together. Combeferre learned the angel’s views – he was angry with the world, and rightfully so, in Combeferre’s opinion – and his manners – he was not polite, neither was he kind – and of the way a smile from the angel could rival the sun. He felt engulfed in warm affection, but that, he had to admit, he had felt in the Devil’s presence as well. When the sun was setting, they returned to Combeferre’s room. He lit a candle. They didn’t wait; time passed without them noticing at all. There were many things that could be said of the Devil, yet not that he was unpunctual, and there was a sharp knock on Combeferre’s door when the first pink ray fell into the room. 

He opened the door and bid the Devil inside, who slipped into the small room gracefully. “My friend,” he said and eyed the angel carefully. “My friend.” the angel repeated the salutation.

The angel smiled. His plush lips seemed to be much thinner than Combeferre remembered them. 

“Do come in, dear man, don’t hover on the doorstep.” he requested of the Devil. He took off his hat while Combeferre closed the door and went to stand by the window. The angel was reclining on his bed, and the Devil joined him, although he sat as far away from the angel as humanly possible. 

“I thank you, Mephistopheles, for your generous offer; and Seraph, I thank you for your efforts to keep my soul untainted.” Combeferre began while behind him, the sun was rising. The other two men were smiling at him amiably; the Devil more so. “Even though both of you do not seem to possess the ability to get to the point within an appropriate amount of time... just as well. I am here, you are here, and you wish to grant me knowledge far beyond that of any other human being.” The Devil nodded slightly. Combeferre, too, nodded. His gaze was moving from the Devil’s eyes to the angel’s eyes. “I have struggled with the decision, I must say... your companion has offered some valuable advice. It would not make me much loved in the eyes of our Creator.” 

The Devil shrugged as if to say, 'so?'

“A weak point, though.” Combeferre granted him that. “I do not live my life by the standards others wish to measure it with. It is my own life, my own decisions. So – there is no reason not to accept: yet is there a reason to _accept_ your offer? To be tortured until my death, as you have put it? It does not seem pleasant, I have thought to myself.” 

“Life is rarely pl-” the angel started, but the Devil shot him a dark look. He was silenced, and Combeferre was thrown off balance: the angel seemed like someone who would not be silenced by Armageddon itself. 

“Go on,” the Devil asked of Combeferre, but Combeferre hesitated. The sunlight was slowly beginning to illuminate the room. There, in front of him, sat two men: no celestial beings, he could see that now. They each had two rows of teeth, no halo, no wings, no insects. Not ordinary men, though, not with the Devil’s charm and the angel’s terribleness. But mortal men. And he wondered how he could’ve been so blind before; an angel would never be silenced by a Devil. His mind was racing. He had drunk too much, he had been longing so much for a simple solution – it had to be his mistake. He had made a mistake. 

They were mortal like him, could ( _would_ ) bleed like him, felt like him. 

“... this is a test. And it won’t determine whether I am a servant of God or not.” 

There was a huge grin spreading on the face of the Devil. 

“Oh, you have lied to me. You have both lied to me!” Combeferre accused them, and the Devil’s grin was mirrored by a soft smile on the angel’s face. The man (not an angel, never an angel except in Combeferre’s clouded mind) sat up and reached for him with one hand. 

“Do not be hurt, my friend. You are most promising.” 

“Promising? Enjolras, don’t underestimate his value. Combeferre, my dear Combeferre! You are very much perfect!” said the Devil and nudged the angel’s side. “To be quite honest, we had expected you to take my offer, and that would’ve been enough – you behaved admirably, you were open and insistent on your personal freedom, you would die for a cause, we believe, and-” 

“Courfeyrac, be quiet. You’re talking too much.” the angel – Enjolras – said. 

Combeferre shook his head. “No, no. He’s not talking too much. A test, yes? You wanted to test if I possess a strong character? Good morales?” 

“And you exceeded our expectations,” Enjolras said wearing that soft smile once again. He stood and clasped Combeferre’s shoulder in a show of camaraderie. “When you and Courfeyrac spent that evening together, he came to me rhapsodizing about this brilliant young medicine student he’d met. He was still half-drunk, but you did seem very pleasant, judging from his stories; and indeed, you are. Combeferre, I would very much like to call you our friend from now on.” 

Combeferre could feel his cheeks heating up. This was embarrassing. He had actually believed their act. 

“Oh, don’t be ashamed,” Courfeyrac said happily and stood as well to take Combeferre’s hand. “We’re just especially talented actors!” Enjolras snorted. Courfeyrac nodded, agreeing with himself. “Aren’t we? I do believe we could be on the stage and even the harshest critic would cheer. And there is nothing you need to be ashamed of. You are very much the perfect person for what we are planning. You passed the test – the exceeded the test – you are far better than Heaven and Hell combined.” 

“What are you planning?” Combeferre asked with the beginnings of a smile forming on his face.

“Yes, yes. As you’ve said yourself, it shouldn’t be allowed to continue on like this. Paris, France, the world – everywhere you look, people are hurting in so many different ways.” Courfeyrac said. 

“And we will free them,” Enjolras interjected. “We will _save_ them. Will you help us with that?” 

Combeferre extricated himself from their gentle touches and went to pour himself a glass of wine. He took one sip, turning his back towards the two – friends? Conspirators? Both, probably. He turned back.  
“You wish to free them?” he asked. Two faces, illuminated and open and _certain_ , nodded at him. He couldn’t help nodding back. “Then I shall do my very best to assist you.” 

They sat and talked for six hours, and there was no more mention of demons and angels. Combeferre would sometimes think back on that first time he’d met Enjolras and Courfeyrac and chuckle to himself, but he would never mention it to anyone else. It was their secret. Whenever it would come up in one of their discussions, they would all laugh. “You were so young and naïve!” Courfeyrac would say and Enjolras would agree, and Combeferre would wear his widest grin with his two best friends. 

(When he died, years later, with the first sunrays on his face and his eyes raised to the sky, for a moment he thought he saw Enjolras and Courfeyrac, both with wings and gorgeously unharmed, above him. They gently took his hands and raised him high above the Earth. 

An illusion.

Obviously.)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear recipient, 
> 
> I hope you like this. I really, really hope you like it. 
> 
> I can't hope for much more. I did my best. Don't hate me if this isn't what you would've hoped for, please.
> 
> Lots of love to you. Enjoy the holidays!
> 
> // I'm so sorry if the capitalization looks weird! But as far as I'm aware, that's how you use biblical concepts. You capitalize them. ...right?


End file.
